Paul always smiled as though he were trying not to laugh.
This man’s smile was cautious, as though he expected happiness to be taken from him.
“My name is Evan,” he said.
I placed the photograph down.
“Who are you?”
His jaw tightened.
“Paul’s brother.”
“Paul didn’t have a brother.”
“He did.”
I stared at him.
Evan drew a slow breath.
“He had a twin.”
The apartment door suddenly opened.
Diane hurried inside, saw me standing beside Evan, and stopped.
“No.”
I turned toward her.
“How long have you known him?”
She did not answer quickly enough.
“How long, Diane?”
“Fourteen months.”
Paul had disappeared twelve months earlier.
I looked back at Evan.
“You were on the boat.”
His silence answered before his words did.
“There were two of us,” he finally admitted. “Paul invited me.”
My knees weakened, and I lowered myself onto the sofa.
Diane remained near the door, clutching her handbag.
Evan sat across from me.
“When we were nine, our mother passed, and our father could no longer care for both of us,” he explained. “Paul went to live with an aunt. I was sent to an uncle several hundred miles away.”
“Paul never told me.”
“Paul told you the version of his life he could live with.”
He said they exchanged letters as children. Then their relatives became involved in a bitter disagreement over money, responsibility, and blame.
By the time Paul was sixteen, he had stopped answering Evan completely.
“I tried to find him after we became adults,” Evan said. “He refused to speak to me.”
I looked at the mark near his wrist.
“What about that?”
Evan glanced down.
“We both received those marks when we were eight. A hot tray slipped from a counter, and we both tried to catch it.”
My stomach turned.
Paul had told me his mark came from our first Thanksgiving together. He claimed he burned himself while taking a roasting pan from the oven.
He had invented the story after I asked about it in front of friends.
The lie about the mark disturbed me more than learning about the twin.
Paul had not merely avoided mentioning Evan.
He had spent years carefully removing his brother from every story.
Diane stepped closer.
“Paul contacted Evan six months before the fishing trip.”
I looked at her.
“You knew?”
“He received a letter after their father passed. Paul wanted my help arranging a meeting.”
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
“He said he wanted to surprise you after they worked things out.”
According to Diane, the brothers began speaking by phone.
Some conversations went well.
Others ended abruptly.
Evan wanted to understand why Paul had erased him from his life.
Paul wanted to know why Evan had remained close to relatives who blamed Paul’s side of the family for everything that happened after their mother was gone.
Neither man admitted the obvious truth.
They had both been frightened children who believed the other had chosen to leave.
Finally, Paul invited Evan on a fishing trip.
“He thought being alone on the water would force them to talk honestly,” Diane said.
“You drove Evan to the marina.”
She nodded.
“That was the first time I met him in person.”
I turned to Evan.
“What happened on the boat?”
He looked toward the floor.
“The weather changed much faster than predicted. The engine failed. Fuel began leaking, and a blaze spread through the rear compartment.”
The brothers put on flotation vests and entered the water.
But the storm separated them.
“Paul kept calling my name,” Evan said quietly. “Then the wind became too loud, and I couldn’t hear him anymore.”
Before they lost sight of each other, Paul pushed a sealed, buoyant tackle box toward Evan.
Evan wrapped its cord around his vest.
Hours later, he reached a navigation platform.
A cargo vessel found him the following morning.
